Approaching Normal
by meeeeeeeelkoooooooor
Summary: Mairon had always been the quiet one. He valued the repitition of daily life—college, homework, a bit of light reading as he pretended to listen to his roommate's gossip. But everything changed after an unlikely meeting with an even less likely superstar—and Mairon is thrust into a world of violence, drugs, and intrigue through a dark and seductive musician. Angbang / Modern AU
1. Dream Glasses Off

**WARNINGS: **Do NOT read this if you have any of various serious triggers. It's rated M for a reason. This story will cover drug abuse, alcohol abuse, depression, suicide, sexual abuse and violence, domestic abuse... the list goes on. I don't do happy endings; don't expect them. This is not meant for the faint of heart. You have been warned.

_Approaching Normal_

I

Mairon often wondered if a man like Melkor could ever have loved him. He wondered if Melkor was even capable of love, damaged as he was; but he knew without a doubt he loved him all the same, for his faults and failures. He knew he could not live without his light—or _unlight_, for he would never call such a light nor darkness. There was something beautiful there, crawling through the night.

He wondered if this was what lured sailors out into the waves and their deaths. He wondered if this was what they spoke of when they whispered the old stories of the Fae folk; not a lust, but a timeless yearning —for change. _Happiness_. A moment's reprieve before they were lured out to their deaths.

But was he happy? Would he ever be happy?

Happiness was a blessing for the strong-willed.

He had not been happy since that _day_. September 17, a little more than one year the former. He would never forget the day, regretfully circled on his calendar, glaring at him from across the room where the sun struck it just right in the mornings to make the red Sharpie glow hatefully. The day they first met—the first day in which nothing was _enough_ for him anymore. There had been such high hopes for him; who was left to hope now?

Now, in this _unlight_, without Melkor he was nothing. He was a forgotten regret, carefully erased from the lives of the greater man.

He was a man who believed firmly in second chances, and—maybe, just maybe, in another life... He would have a second chance to step away from those doors.

Would he take it, he wondered? Was it in the book for him? Or was this how it was meant to be—an endless spiral. Death begets death.

He knew how it was done. He'd seen Melkor do it, so many times, though he pretended so often that he didn't notice—and a quick googling held all of the answers that his calculating gaze had not. The only difference was that he was doing it for himself, this time. Just once.

He barely felt the prick of the needle into his skin, or the single rogue teardrop sliding from his amber eyes.

Maybe, in some other life...

_-Some day, someone_  
_Is gonna love you-  
_

2011

He'd found the only quiet room of the house—which was, ironically, the front lobby. Everyone was in the back, cutting the cake—he could hear bits and pieces of _Happy Birthday_ with Varda's name shoved into the wrong verses. They were obviously having plenty of drunken fun. He wondered how much longer 'only an hour' was going to last.

_"I'm telling you, man—you should go. It's going to be so cool. Yavanna's going to be there. Hell, even __**Namo**__ RSVP'd. You know, the creepy guy dating Vaire who works at the mortuary? That shithead never leaves his house."_

_"I... I'm not good with parties. Or people. Or anything really. You know that, Aule..."_

Of course he knew that. But it appeared Aule was too interested in impressing Yavanna, the lovely strawberry blonde who had invited them to the party in the first place. He wanted to show how great he was by getting quiet little Mairon out of the apartment for once. Mairon loved Aule as his best friend, but if his dear friend was anything, subtle was not one of his qualities.

_Aule scoffed. "You never go to parties, so how would you know that you wouldn't like it? Who knows—this could be your lucky day. You could meet a nice girl, go see the world—"_

_"I don't do the girl thing—or the world thing either. Really, you're just making this less pleasant for me." Mairon tried to retreat, but Aule gave him that don't-you-dare look he saved for these certain occasions. He realized there was as little chance of backing out of this as there was of passing his Chem final._

_"Come on, buddy," Aule's voice softened. "We've been best friends since, what, kindergarten? We're moved in together, going to college together—remember that one time that you shat yourself—"_

_"—I remember," he interrupted, deflating._

Mairon was back to stress-crocheting again. So far he had made three multicolored beanies, two scarves, five sets of arm-warmers, and a small patterned throw. This was not a good sign; and these were all certainly things he would never use. Except maybe the beanies, but that was a situational thing, and it was not like Mairon liked going outside to show off his crafting habits anyway. He would prefer the world outside of his small social circle be unaware of his hobbies. Unaware of him in general, even.

_Aule fixed him with the most painfully pleading look he'd ever seen on the tall man. His reddish brown eyebrows tilted up innocently, framing warm, desperate eyes. "Do it for me?"_

_Mairon breathed in steadily, trying to keep his cool. Aule knew he could win Mairon over like this; it always worked. Mairon was not one for abandoning friends in their time of need... even when he knew he was being manipulated. "I—alright. But just for a little bit."_

'A little bit,' as it turned out, meant he would be stuck there until midnight or later—he couldn't even remember the time, and Aule still had his Samsung from earlier, which he feared might currently be sitting at the bottom of the Iluvatars' multi-million-dollar swimming pool. The blonde sighed, tucking one of his curly locks beneath the stocking cap from whence it had escaped with a single bony-fingered hand. Light amber eyes studied the room for the umpteenth time, wondering if it was worth playing a game of Spot the Unnecessary Carvings again.

The home of famous director and producer Eru Iluvatar was as expansive as he should have expected. The opening hall was a grand mess of swirling architecture, inspired in part by the popularized style of fantasy stories and by the director's own creative mind. Mairon knew Aule was ecstatic to see the inside of the famous home, being a sculptor and an architect himself; but all Mairon found use of with it was counting the number of spirals on the massive chandelier above his head. The long bench he was seated on, while beautiful, was completely uncomfortable, and it did not help there was some sort of mystery couple passionately making out on the other end.

He was about to get up and ask again when it all went to hell.

Thinking back, Mairon could see it in a series of steps—the door flying open and heavy boots thudding on the floor; Mairon turning, surprised, and the glass of wine in his hand faltering; the moment when he lost his grip on the stem and he collided with the firm chest of the most frightening man he had ever chanced to meet—and, of course, he had just doused said man's leather jacket with the alcohol formerly in his hand.

Mairon shrank back immediately, struggling to chance a look at the dark man's face, likely livid with the rage of some sort of evil god, a dark scowl framed by cruel cheekbones and dark hair—

But when he looked, he saw not the rage of a dark creature but rather... _annoyance_. Disregard, even. The man looked not at him, with his icy blue eyes, but more so _through_ him—like he was a rat. Or a roach. A mere housepest. It unnerved him more than rage ever could.

Looking away, the dark figure sighed, and—of all things—removed his coat to hand off to a dumbfounded Mairon. "Get it cleaned," came a smooth, rich voice—it was more like a rumble, and Mairon felt a shiver course through him in that which he could not discern as fear or excitement, but something in between.

The coat draped in his arms, spilled wine seeping through the sleeve of his sweater and coating his forearm in a sticky, smelly mess. Mairon attempted to form words—but a jumbled chaos was all that he managed as the tall figure brushed right past him. Like he wasn't even there. Or he just wasn't important. From behind him, a voluptuous woman snaked by, leering at him with eyes of an intelligent, greedy brown—

"Oh—Melkor! What have you done now? This boy looks terrified—is that your coat?" Mairon flinched at the bright voice behind him. He knew that voice—their host, Manwe. The brilliant son of the esteemed Eru Iluvatar, and the current fiancé of Aule's dear friend Varda.

The dark and scary one—Melkor, his mind corrected—leered over his shoulder. "Just here to drop off your damned bike. Tell dad Gothmog's not fixing your toys for you anymore, runt. You can go take your shit to a real shop." The spidery woman behind him procured a set of keys from somewhere within her dark corset, which she wordlessly tossed over Mairon's head. He heard the sharp _clang_ as Manwe caught them.

Just like that, he was gone, sweeping out of the room and back through the front door—but not without a last-minute hesitation, fixing Mairon again with that bone-chilling steel gaze. "I expect that jacket back by the end of the week," he said threateningly. Mairon shrank back a little, nodding stupidly at the retreating figure. Casually—perhaps even jokingly—the dark woman waved behind herself, smirking through black-painted lips as they retreated into the night.

Then he was gone, and Mairon let out the breath he had no idea he'd been holding. Manwe spun him around gently, looking him over as if he were expecting to see bruises. Maybe he was. Mairon felt like he'd been attacked and degraded all the same by that gaze alone from that dark figure. "I'm sorry—Mairon, right?" At his nod, his platinum blonde host continued, "My brother is just being himself—he didn't hurt you, did he?"

"N-no," Mairon stammered. "I spilled wine on his jacket. It was an accident—"

"Don't worry; I'll take care of that for you. Leave it to Melkor to scare off my party guests..." He lifted the jacket off of Mairon's arms carefully, avoiding the spill in a way Mairon hadn't. "You don't look so good, bud—you came with Aule, right? I'll go get him and see if he can take you home."

Mairon could only nod. Manwe was astonishingly friendly—in an awkward way, as they both seemed acutely aware of Mairon's own miserable social status, but friendly nonetheless. He wasn't sure why he still felt so shaken up about the meeting. Perhaps it was the way Melkor regarded him, like he was barely there—like he was a cockroach on the wall, not even worth acknowledging if it weren't for the fact that more might come along.

"I—I do feel a little sick, I think," Mairon managed the lie with a small smile, more than eager to leave. "I would like to go."

Manwe smiled again-he was one of those people with the million-dollar grin, like they'd spent their entire life in front of a camera. "I'll go get him for you, bud. Just wait here, and—take a seat or something. You look like you could fall out at any moment."

He did just that as Manwe walked away, looking like a god among men in his fine-tailored suit and stylish haircut. This was the last time, Mairon decided, that he would get involved with these nonsense millionaire parties. Aule would have to find someone else to tag along and impress Yavanna with.

-x-

"Mairon, I've gotta know. What's he like?"

"_Who_?"

"You know—Morgoth Bauglir. The Morgoth Bauglir. Manwe's brother. I think his real name is, like—Velcro or Shelko or something crazy like that."

"_Melkor_?"

"Yeah! You've heard of him right? I mean, you can't live under a rock all the time. I heard he's a total asshole, and a junkie—that's what the tabloids say at least, so I'm not sure, and Manwe doesn't like to bring him up. But you _ran_ _right into him_! Dude!"

"_Eyes on the road_ please, Aule." The worn '96 Lexus jerked a little as Aule righted it and turned off of the 409. A scowl spread across his broad face as the woman behind them honked her horn.

"Calm down—I'm not doing anythin', crazy gal," he said to no one in particular before continuing his game of twenty questions, patting Mairon on the shoulder with one tanned hand. "Come on, man, I've gotta know. Please?"

"I don't know—I've never even heard of a Morgoth—I spilled wine on him. I think I made him mad. He didn't even really look at me though. I'm not sure..."

"Oh, yeah. Manwe said he'll take care of that jacket—I guess that's what it's all about. Good thing, too. From what I've heard that guy is worth staying far away from if ya got yourself on his bad side. Junkie bastard and all that." He looked pointedly at Mairon as they pulled up to a red light. His brown eyes were full of trust and caution—he caught Mairon's amber gaze clinically, as if he were assessing the damage the night had done to him. "Try not to go near that guy anymore, okay? Manwe was acting all shaken up, like he was afraid his bro was gonna come back and wail on you. I don't want to see some rock and roll bastard go after you—especially not someone like him, with all that fame behind him. The tabs would rip you apart. Like Rihanna, with the whole Chris Brown thing; they like to side with the bigger guy."

"I won't," Mairon agreed. "I don't want to ever meet him again. He was kind of scary. And really tall." He shivered.

Aule laughed warmly. "Mairon, hon, everyone is really tall compared to you."

Mairon scowled and pulled his stocking cap further over his golden locks in embarrassment. "Don't rub it in..." he grumbled and Aule proceeded to drop the subject at last, going into a detailed retelling of his night at the party with Yavanna, interjecting it with cases of 'I think I might have a chance now, ya know,' and 'man, I think she really _like_ likes me!' Mairon managed to tune it out pretty easily, nodding at the appropriate times and otherwise gazing thoughtfully out the window.

Through all of the intimidation, the degradation—Mairon still couldn't get those eyes of icy cobalt out of his mind. Those _eyes_... and when he finally made it back to their hole-in-the-wall apartment over by campus, finally managed to wander his way into his room and collapse onto his bed, they were all he could dream about, sending thrilled shivers down his spine as they regarded him coldly. There was something alluring about them... something chaotic. And it frightened Mairon, more than anything else.

Morning came, and he felt that maybe he'd never have to worry about that chance meeting again. But as sunlight streamed through his window, painting his room in a delicate white, he felt somehow that things were about to change. Whether this was a good or a bad thing was still up for question.

He was frightened by that.

-x-

**/note: **hello minions. told you i was writing a thing. didn't say it was going to be a jolly endeavor. you guys were pretty unanimous asking for the modern au and, well, in all honesty this behemoth has been in the works for a very long time. im happy to present it to you. please don't kill me.

coming next: we will have a notably longer second chapter now that we've passed the juxtaposition nonsense. Mairon encounters Manwe again. Things ensue. We get to see our favorite dark lord and resident rockstar for a second time.


	2. Rattlesnake

II  
_Rattlesnake_

x

Life was good—or as good as it could be—for Mairon Gorthaur. His life was on repetition each week, as he attended Art History lectures and attempted his Chemistry homework. The sun rose, the days were warm, and then the sun set and the nights were cool. People scurried about their daily lives, couples fought loudly next door to his cramped apartment, and smog warnings encouraged him to keep the windows closed and not allow his beloved orange persian, Frederick, out onto the windowsills to keep from damaging his fragile lungs.

He didn't have to think about any Morgoth Bauglirs—or whatever Aule called him—for several days after that. That gaze still haunted him, but he could throw it back into a distant memory, like the party had never happened. He went about his normal business like always, going to class and studying quietly while Aule gushed about his date-but-not-a-date to happen on Saturday with his current obsession of Yavanna. Sometimes, he set up on the roof and painted from there, pouring out his thoughts into a surrealistic take on the cityscape and not daring to think of any cobalt eyes or voices of smooth, dark velvet.

This changed on Thursday, when he made it back from classes at lunch time and saw a white-blonde figure standing at his apartment door. Manawenuz Sulimo, the golden child of the great Iluvatar family, looked painfully out-of-place in the dirty complex, clad in his crisp suit and with a fancy garment bag draped over his arm, emblazoned with "EFFREY'S" on one side. He bit his lip as he wondered with embarrassment just how much Manwe spent on getting that coat cleaned—probably more than Mairon had ever seen—and why he was here now, with said coat in arm.

He spun elegantly as Mairon approached, blonde eyebrows arched. "There you are! I'm so sorry; I didn't mean to impose, if you have classes or anything." His voice was as warm and inviting as always, his light blue gaze trained on Mairon's skinny frame.

"Um—it's fine," Mairon shuffled his feet, running a hand through his curly golden-yellow hair and wishing he'd worn one of his caps today to hide under. "I—sorry—I just got out of class, if you've been waiting...are you looking for Aule?"

Manwe shook his head, and Mairon felt a pang of horrible anxiety. "Actually," Manwe explained softly, feeling the fright radiating off of the boy, "I went to have Melkor's coat delivered, and he wouldn't have it. He said he'll only take it from you—the one who, and I quote, '_fucked it up_'." He frowned sourly. "I'm so sorry, Mairon..."

For a moment, Mairon thought he might cry. The thought of seeing that man again—it both thrilled and horrified him. He remembered Aule's advice to avoid him if possible—and he felt for a minute like a traitor. But what had to be done, had to be done; Manwe obviously came all of the way out here to find him.

"What..." he swallowed, "what do I need to do?"

"I'll take you to his flat, get you in—don't worry, he's not too bad in small doses. I doubt he'd hurt you when he knows I know you. He just wants you to bring his coat. I guess it's some kind of payback or something—I don't know. I'll never really understand him." Manwe smiled comfortingly, and Mairon felt a bit of his anxiety ease. Manwe was one of those sorts of people, he decided, who were innately kind and helpful; perhaps that was where his popularity stemmed. A natural leader, Aule had called him once. Probably going to become president or something one day. Aule didn't talk about that sort of thing lightly. Mairon understood now what he meant.

He didn't speak much as Manwe led him out of his drab apartment complex and to a waiting car with a price tag Mairon would have balked at, ushering him into the backseat as he directed the driver toward a flat downtown. Mairon continued in silence as the journey commenced, nodding occasionally as Manwe attempted small-talk. He was so alarmingly friendly and approachable that Mairon felt his own nervous wall slowly being chipped away.

"You're so small," Manwe mused. "How old are you, anyway?"

"Um—nineteen." As of August. It was now September. He wasn't going to mention that. Even then, he was short and thin compared to the common populace. He got the 'the middle school is that way' joke far too many times a week. There was no way he looked _that _young—but standing at a short 5'5" and 120 pounds in a sea of giants was not easy in the least. "My family is all short..." he explained belatedly, hoping it could be left there. His mother always rambled on about how he never ate enough, and that was why he was small—and tried to shove casseroles and pot pies and goulashes his way at any given interval now, as if she thought her adult son was going to hit a sudden growth spurt.

"Wow," Manwe mused, breaking him of his thoughts. "I'm sorry—you probably get a lot from people about that—about looking young and all. It's not a bad thing to retain your youth."

"It's not a problem..." Mairon managed nervously. "I—I'm okay with my height. It gets me free meals at the restaurants sometimes, when I can get Aule to pass as my big brother." Manwe smiled warmly at that. To Mairon's relief, he quieted again then, breaking the silence only to fiddle with the radio and chat with the burly driver, who proved to be a friend of his by the name of Tulkas.

The car wove its way through the streets, moving further and further downtown as Mairon sank into the expensive leather of the seat and tried not to notice the garment bag beside him or think about what he had to do. The thought of facing that man again...would he be harmed? Aule had seemed so uncomfortable about him...

Manwe had all sorts of minor chatter to distract him through the drive, talking about work and law school and his beloved fiancee, Varda—and Mairon drifted off, gazing thoughtfully out at the city traffic and wondering if he'd be back in time to give Frederick his dinner, or if he'd have to feed the chubby orange persian later in the evening, resulting in the cat's angriest protesting yowls for being off schedule. Perhaps Aule had made it back from work early again, and fed the cat while Mairon was out, assuming that he'd gone out with friends—friends that, of course, had failed to so much as speak to him since the fiasco with Eonwe.

When the car pulled to a halt, deftly parking in a spot parallel to the street, Mairon saw that the were near the riverfront. Here mills once stood, churning their wheels through the water and spewing smoke into the air, staining many of the old buildings throughout old downtown with the dark charcoal of the age of industry; now, most of them had been replaced with fine high-rises or polished until their bricks practically shone, the finest of the surviving mills rennovated into meeting places, inner-city lofts, and fancy restaurants. Such was the plight of the industrial age; now a popular place for a fancy shindig with an old-town twist, or a fine location for a wealthy youth to make into their new living space.

Mairon's stomach knotted as Manwe beckoned for him to leave the light tan leather comfort of the vehicle's interior. This was it. He breathed deeply, bracing himself for whatever he would face on the other side of the red brick walls. He wondered if he could explain himself out of a black eye, beg for forgiveness, perhaps even let the entire atmosphere of Earth disppear, dragging them all out into space as their insides expand out of their pores and they cry soundless screams, dying before he ever had to face the mysterious Melkor again.

The latter was less likely. He deemed it barely plausible and decided not to rely on such false hopes.

Manwe led him through massive, heavy mill doors, propped open in the pleasant September air, then through another set of much smaller doors and into a lobby. Mairon felt his nerves bubble up again. He could just look at it to know—the polished wooden rafters, the massive bubbling waterfall, the ancient but gleaming floors—Melkor had money. Plenty of it. He had the kind of money to live in a massive and high-rate spot of realty value like this one. He'd seen it in magazines before, or maybe on HGTV where they continued on about upper-class condomeniums and houses.

At the front desk, a young woman—not much older than Mairon, he mused—had her lace-up boots propped up on the desk, idly smoking a cigarette despite the blaring "NO SMOKING" sign at the front of the fine lobby. As she heard the footsteps of approaching guests, she quickly readjusted herself, straightening up properly in her chair and lowering her cigarette as she smoothed out her dark ponytail, a light blush dancing across her rounded, pale face.

"Welcome to Angband," she called in a thick Southern twang that shocked Mairon at first, then reminded him vaguely of an uncle from central Alabama that he'd once met, "finest riverside lofts in—_hey, _what are ye doin'—you ain't allowed in here! Fuck off! You know the rules—no guest list, no buggin' the big man—"

"Good afternoon, Tanya." Manwe sounded oddly chipper.

"It's _Thuringwethil,_" The waspy woman ground the end of her cigarette into a near-dust on the countertop.

"How does your mother feel about that name?—I'm not here to see my brother either way." Manwe smiled a cruelly bright smile that left Mairon intimidated. It was in the curve of the blonde man's eyebrows—a certain sinister gleam that broke through his fair, proud exterior. Cruelty ran in the family, Mairon thought belatedly, and was immediately glad not to be at the receiving end of Manwe's anger.

"What are ye doin' here, then—with that lil' slip of a boy, just lookit. Oh, I could eat ya right up, cutie—c'mere." Mairon instinctively ducked back as one of Tanya—_Thuringwethil'__s _strong arms reached out toward him. Cooing at her miss in her dark Southern twang, she looked him over again and her eyes lit up with recognition. "Yeoww! Yer the one the Merr-goth's been waitin' fer, right? Damn, he's sayin' right 'bout you bein' a sweet one—just lookit them dimples—smile fer me, won't ya hunny?"

Mairon managed a halfhearted smile while Manwe moved before him in a manner he could only describe as _protective. _Thuringwethil tutted quietly and popped a stick of gum into her red-lipped mouth as Manwe demanded again to have the garment in Mairon's arms delivered.

"Not you," she said, extending a bony finger at Manwe as she loudly poppe a bubble in her gum. Turning her hand to Mairon, her smile sweetened. "Just him. Doc's orders. I ain't havin' him comin' right down here in half an hour askin' fer all of my dope. He don't ever wanna see yer ugly giddup anyway, you stinkin' pratter."

Manwe leered at her, his trained smile faltering. Mairon wondered then how false his smile may be; but he flushed it quickly out of his mind. Manwe had shown kindness to him thus far, and it was not his place to analyse him. Thuringwethil met his gaze, and to Mairon they appeared to be exchanging some sort of inner battle; then her face brightened as she turned her hungry gaze back to him, smiling in a way that was all too sugar-sweet.

"Up the stairs to your left, hon," she instructed in an overly warm tone. "I'mma buzz you up real quick. Unit 2."

With a last look at Manwe for reassurance, he gripped the bag tightly in his skinny arms and made for the aforementioned archway—made of huge, dark wooden planks with dim modern lighting. It was unclear if this was intended to be welcoming or threatening, as the lights cast pale shadows onto his face. The sooner he made it through this, the better.

The door on the second-floor landing was hard to miss; big and dark wood just like the rest of the once-mill, worn like the massive floorboards under his sneakers. He felt again his anxiety, his social phobias raising up within him like a dark wraith, clawing at his innards and telling him _run, run before he kills you, you clumsy fuck—_

It took him a few minutes before he managed a tentative knock.

A few moments more, then from the other side—an echoing voice. "It's unlocked," called someone that could be none other than Melkor. But he sounded different today. From the same timbre that offered icy regards before was a warmer welcome, not necessarily friendly but not horrible either. Like the color red, Mairon thought. The edge was there but unused.

He turned the knob and opened the door.

The interior of Melkor's flat shouldn't have come as a surprise to Mairon; it was an industrial style, being that of a remodeled mill, all dark wooden beams and brick and pale plaster. Ahead of him was a group of three grand arched mill-windows behind a comfortable seating area, overlooking the glittering and lazily flowing river, and beyond that busy streets and storefronts, with massive dark floor-to-cieling curtains tied back to let in the afternoon sun. To his right—an expensive kitchen stocked with glistening granite counters and the latest appliances, fine enough to make Mairon picture himself cooking there, fixing up a classic French dish as he hadn't made since he still lived with his mom—

"You can put the coat on the counter," came a casual order that broke Mairon's reverie. Past the kitchen was a smooth arch in the plaster wall, and standing haphazardly on a latter with a paintbrush in hand was Melkor.

For a minute, Mairon could barely believe this was the same person he'd seen a few days before. He looked too shockingly _domestic;_ with a pair of old paint-smudged jeans and a matching oversized tee, his dark hair piled into a messy hairclipped bun, he was a picture of the chaotic artistic mind. He labored over a half-finished red monstrosity of a great dragon, weaving its way over to the top of the arch and spitting fire from its shining nostrils and sharp-toothed maw. Mairon was for a minute captivated by his work, which seemed so delightfully alive, like it might peel its way from the wall and flit about the room, setting fire to the curtains and furniture as it went about its destructive business.

"..._or _you could keep staring—yeah, that's fine too." Mairon shook his head and blushed. What was he doing?—the artistic whimsy of the financial elite was none of his business.

"S-sorry," he stammered, his sweaty grip tightening on his cargo. He walked—_waddled, _more like, or perhaps _shuffled—_to the front counter, dividing the kitchen from the living area, and gingerly placed the Effrey's bag on top of it. "I—" he swallowed, "I like your painting. Of the dragon."

"Thanks," came a muffled response. The ladder creaked precariously as its occupant climbed down, paintbrush in mouth. When his feet hit the ground he took it and tossed it into a cup of water sitting by his work area. "I like it too. Had a big fire monster taking up that wall but—it was getting old. I wanted something new. It kept reminding me of my manager—kind of freaky, right?"

Mairon marveled first at how Melkor so easily destroyed his work—was he not insinuating that he _painted over something else _like that? Mairon hated letting any of his work go to waste. He still had a box of his mothers saved away, filled with old-but-failed oil paintings that he didn't have the heart to get rid of, even if he didn't like them. Painting over his work was only something done in desperation.

Melkor eyed the garment bag and grumbled. "Effrey's," he joked. "Shoulda known. Pretentious shit—he knows the owners hate me, so he's just _got_to use them, huh?" He made his way over to the fridge, and before Mairon could protest, a beer was being thrust at him with a grunted "here," offered in a way that was more demanded than asked before the dark-haired man grabbed one of his own, leaning across the bar and reminding Mairon of just how _tall _he was.

"Don't look at me like that." Mairon flinched, feeling the command in Melkor's deep voice. "So fucking apologetic. Do you know why I wanted you to bring this back yourself?"

Mairon shrugged. "I—I'm really sorry about—"

"This isn't about you being a clumsy little brat." His cobalt eyes deepened to a darker shade. "This is about taking care of business. You—_you__—_were asked to do something. Something reasonably simple. Clean the mess you made. I wouldn't have cared if you threw the damn jacket in the washing machine and ruined it; I can get another one. It's not like that's the last leather in the world. It's not even my favorite. The problem—" he leered at Mairon and he remembered again the commanding aura from that night at the party, "—is that you let _Manwe _fix this for you. Manwe is the most vindictive piece of shit you will ever meet, kid—take that to heart." At Mairon's confusion, he grinned. "My brother is a big, nasty pidgeon posing as an eagle. Now you owe him a favor, see—think ahead. Try about twenty years. You've got a career, a wife and a few kids—then _bam_, Manwe shows up. He wants to collect for that one time he helped you out when you were at a party. He wants twenty thousand dollars, because he's been calculating interest this whole time—and you're just a middle-class joker. Your car doesn't even cost that much. You can't fork it up. He sues you for everthing you're worth—bang, now you're broke. You're on the streets. You turn to the bottle. Now you're a wine-o junkie with liver cancer. And he's still got that toothy fucking grin on his face."

"He—he seems pretty nice to me," Mairon protested.

Melkor laughed. "Just wait," he promised. "Just you fucking wait. He's the sleaziest little brat on the planet. No wonder he wants to become a lawyer—when you sue enough people, you get to where you want to be the one doing the suing. Crowned king of the media _and _king of the law. Now he might as well just run for fuckin' president because everyone who he hasn't wronged yet is in love with him." Melkor's eyes lit up with a determined fire, gleaming dangerously. "That'd be a good song. I should write it—_Manwe Is a Dick and America Is Fucked_. The musical. Bet the producers would fall in love."

Mairon let him continue babbling enthusiastically, describing his new inspiration with single-arm gestures as he took a drink from his beer. Mairon looked down at the one he'd had thrust upon him. It was only polite to at least attempt to drink some of it—as he didn't seem to be in any kind of position at the moment to leave, without inciting some of the well-hidden anger he'd seen at the party before. Melkor was a large man; he didn't want to be on the receiving end of any of his potentially violent ways. He saw him in his mind as he had on that Saturday, piercings weaving their way up his ears under a thick curtain of bone-straight hair, fists clenched, tattoos snaking their way up his strong arms—he could never best Melkor in a fight. He didn't even want to try. His mind, mathematical by nature, knew the odds.

But his mind cleared and he saw this Melkor—alarmingly domestic, in a paint-smeared old shirt, lacking half of the spikes and gauges and loops in his ears; even his tattoos looked like they were happier, in the warm afternoon lighting streaming in from massive mill windows. His hair was a scrambled mess in a big, alarmingly girlish clip.

Remembering again the alcohol in his hand (and Melkor's near-expectant glance), he took a tentative sip. The beer was too dark, too bitter—it slid down his throat, leaving the heavy and overwhelming taste of hops in his mouth. He didn't like it, but he resisted the urge to scowl—perhaps he could get away with not touching the beer any more. Melkor drank it like it was water; he wondered how. Some people, he figured, liked the dark stuff—Aule always complained about Mairon and his 'girly drinks.' Mairon would spit back that he was underage anyway, so why should he be drinking anything in the first place? Might as well be his girly drinks. Aule always laughed then, and threw his arms around Yavanna or Varda or Nienna or whoever else was nearby and insisted they sing a song or do a reasonless toast to whatever he found interesting at that time.

"Sorry again," he managed tentatively, looking at a spot in the stainless steel of the fridge instead of Melkor's weighty gaze. "About the coat and, uh, Manwe."

"I told you," Melkor rolled his eyes, "don't be. And don't ask Manwe to do your favors for you—Sauron, right?"

"_Mairon_, actually—"

"Yeah, Mairon-Sauron-whatever, don't trust Manwe. Be careful with him—I don't even know what Varda sees in him. She dated me first, you know?—said I was too volatile, or something. I don't know. She's an idiot. She just wants at the Iluvatar fortune—bet she'll be putting the moves on my old man next." He laughed to himself. Mairon found he couldn't laugh with him. It was odd, that this dark and rude man knew his friends as he apparently did. If Varda could be considered a friend—a friend of a friend, perhaps. He wasn't fond of considering any of them particularly friendly. They were too close to his old circle. He remembered how things happened before—how everyone turned their backs on him the moment they saw fit. And _Curumo_—what a nightmare he'd been—

_"No, Mairon—what the fuck—that's just sick. You're a fucking perv—stay away from me. I swear, I'm gonna tell everyone—knew you were a freak this whole time—"_

"...I should go." Mairon frowned. "Um—thanks for the drink."

Melkor watched him curiously, raising one handsome eyebrow. "Something wrong, kid? You look sick."

Mairon shouldered past him, head down. He didn't like to dwell on such negative thoughts. No—Aule's crowd was different. That was why he got back up with him, right? They were different. He wouldn't be the clown he became by his senior year of high school. But sometimes he felt that paranoia, and it was hard to ignore. "I'm fine," he managed. "I just need to leave now. Thank you, really—for not beating me up and all too. Sorry about your jacket."

Melkor gave up on his inquiry quickly, backing up from behind him and moving to pull out a cigarette. "No problem, kid." He turned around, already engrossed again in his work. Mairon wondered idly how often he saw guests like this.

To someone like Melkor, he figured, he was probably just another face. But he feared he would have a harder time flushing Melkor out of his mind now.

x

_-runnin', runnin', runnin' rattle behind me-_


	3. Special K

APPROACHING NORMAL

3

"So where were you this afternoon?"

Aule was sauteeing onions on the stove while Mairon lounged on the sofa, legs stretched comfortably out before him.

The gentle crackle of bubbling olive oil filled the room. Aule continued, "I swung by for a textbook and you weren't here. Thought it was kind of weird. You're usually home on Thursdays."

Mairon sighed. "Crazy shit," he mumbled. "You wouldn't buy it." He didn't want to talk about it; not even to Aule. He shared everything with his long-time best friend; but this was something he didn't want to talk about. Not the rancid beer, or the beautiful mural, or the incredibly sexy sound of Melkor's dark-toned laugh as he told stories to no one in particular. Something about the experience made him feel..._important. _He knew, deep down, that Melkor was simply bored and wanted someone to grumble to, and he just happened to be conveniently there. He also knew that Melkor was not a good guy, and not the kind of person he should be sticking around. He knew that the falseness he thought he spotted in Manwe's friendly smile was just the seed of doubt planted by his estranged and wild brother, that the whole gig wasn't more than a technicality demanded by a spoiled millionaire who thought he could teach a lesson or two by making Mairon fix his clumsy mistakes.

"I saw Manwe's Mercedes pull up. Pretty sure there was an awkward hipster stowed away in the back." Mairon's heart sank into his stomach. Aule was facing him now, his brown eyes boring into the back of Mairon's head, onions long forgotten. "What the hell are you up to with the Iluvitars, man?"

Mairon looked at his hands, feeling trapped. "Just some bullshit about Melkor." He could hear the onions sizzle dangerously, then the sound of the spatula returning to the pan. He looked back in time to see Aule rescuing his endangered meal, throwing in a handful of chopped sausage.

"That guy's a fuckin' weirdo," Aule called over his shoulder. "You don't even read the tabs though, so you don't really know—"

"I've thought about googling him," Mairon shut down the argument. "Morgoth Bauglir, right?"

"Yeah," Aule moved the pan to the cool side of the stove and the sound of sizzling died down. "Music's pretty sweet, but the guy's got some serious daddy issues. Someone broke down his stuff in Rollingstone and it's _so _creepy. 'Least it's catchy."

Mairon pulled out his crummy old Blackberry and, after a couple of minutes of fiddling with the rollerball, managed to get the pointer working. He was quick to access Google Mobile, scrolling over to the white search bar.

_Morgoth Bauglir_

He argued with the rollerball until he coaxed the pointer over to the 'search' button, but found himself interested in the Auto Suggest—

_Morgoth Bauglir Dark Water_

_Morgoth Bauglir sex scandal_

_ Morgoth Bauglir News_

_ Morgoth Bauglir gay_

_ Morgoth Bauglir discography_

_ Morgoth Bauglir lawsuit_

He skipped through them and moved into the search results after a minute of his junky operating system desperately processing his request. He scrolled straight to Wikipedia; unsourced or not, it was his favorite for instant and detailed information. Immediately his eyes were assaulted with a flashy red carpet photo of the musician; definitely Melkor, he noted as his eyes traced that mischievous smirk and handsome face. There was no mistaking those stormy cobalt eyes, staring down the camera like it was his prey...

"Ya know, I was thinking—about getting some dreads, you know? Do you think Yavanna would like?" Aule had relocated with his snack to the other side of the couch while Mairon flipped through the article (_oggled a celebrity's photo, _his mind cruelly corrected).

"I don't think Yavanna cares either way," the blondedroned as he scrolled—"Damn, this guy has a lot of singles."

"You googling Morgoth?" Aule chewed his food loudly. "Just wait 'til you get to the part where he gets arrested—"

Mairon's stomach sank as he collapsed 'Discography' and chose 'Controversy'. He felt a bit more...put off now. Why had Manwe sent him up to talk with the man if he knew his brother was a _hardened criminal_? Mairon did not associate with anything that could land him within miles of the police, save for a bit of drinking.

_ On September 22, 2000, Bauglir was arrested Jacksonville, Florida and charged with aggravated assault and battery. The victim, who chooses to remain anonymous, dropped the charges in January 2001, citing "media stressors." _

The nightmare didn't end there. Melkor had plenty of gossip to his name, all dancing around drugs, violence, and rehab. It was incredible, the sheer amount of trouble Mairon had been blissfully ignorant of, in meeting the man. Were all popstars like that?—Messy and confusing, in their wild music bubble? It was not the first time that Mairon felt completely in the dark, after breaking from a sheltering mother and a controlling relationship with a man who desperately shunned the popular world.

"He didn't seem like a druggie," he grumbled as he read.

"They deceive you, Mairon." Aule's voice darkened comically. "_Then they steal your soul._"

"Whatever." Mairon killed the power to his phone and rose from the sofa to go stick it on the charge in the kitchen. "Really though, we just shared a couple of beers and he went on about how much he hates his brother."

Aule shrugged. "Manwe doesn't like to talk about him for a reason. Hey, put the game on while you're up."

"Channel twelve, right?" Mairon wiggled over to the television and coaxed the old tube into life.

"Yeah—_God, _the Bears suck, just look at them—" Aule was done now, trapped in the world of contact sports as he was. Mairon slunk off to his room, padding gently around his sleeping cat, a grand orange beast who had decided to take up some hallway space as his personal nap-pad. Back in his room, a cramped monochromatic sensory paradise, he fell onto his bed and stared at the old stucco ceiling.

The thought of Melkor clung to his mind like a disease, wearing into his conscience and beating on the back door of his thoughts. He could hear Melkor's dark velvet voice like he was still in the upscale city flat, staring into a darkly bitter beer and trying not to look too awkward. He realised that today had been spent among company of the upper, unreachable class, and some primal part of himself..._enjoyed _it.

There was no way around it: Morgoth Bauglir was obscenely handsome and he wanted to meet him again one day. However, Morgoth Bauglir was also terrifying. He was a part of a dangerous world and in ways the fear sent a thrill down Mairon's spine. Just the _thought _of a world so wild had his nerves on fire; it was the opposite of his careful, structured control life with schedules and pre-planning.

On a whim, he grabbed his iPod and flipped through to the Youtube app. A quick search of _Morgoth Bauglir _had him hovering over that single again: _Dark Water. _He remembered it from the Google suggest box and selected it eagerly, pulling his headphones over his ears.

Immediately he was assaulted with a heavy synthesizer, setting a cold and assertive melodic pace. Then a dark, lilting voice came in and the song _changed—_and he could see it, the dark hair and the ice in his eyes falling through his voice like flowing mercury. His sound was beautiful and subtle, but forward enough to bring out some carnal part of himself that revelled in it. Hit musician indeed...his work was polished and refined, like smooth, cold obsidian. He knew what he was doing and he certainly wasn't afraid to do what he wanted with it.

He pulled a blanket over his head and blushed furiously. God, he was _not—would not _get himself involved with that kind of crowd again. Musicians were too much to handle.

Still—there was an allure to it that he couldn't shake.

-x-

His alarm clock jolted him awake at 8:30 AM on the dot, a horrible shrieking beast that broke him out of his quiet, safe bubble world and reminded him that real life was full of obligations and priorities. He grappled for his end table in the bleak morning sun, finally feeling it out and hitting it hard enough to rattle the stale cola can that he could never be bothered to throw out. With a pained groan he stretched out, forgotten earphones popping out of his ears. He must have dozed off—and stayed out for the night, considering he'd never bothered to change his pants or even take off his socks. A single toe poked its way out of a worn hole at the end of his left sock, wiggling its salutations at him. With another indistinct mumble, he rolled out of bed, considering the thought of changing into some sweatpants and going back to sleep. Stats lectures wasn't until noon anyway; Fridays were gloriously lazy and usually dedicated to catching up on the sleep he missed during the week as a desperate art major clinging to a GPA that had two and a half more years to simmer before grad school.

Sweatpants acquired, he was about to crawl back under his mountain of blankets when there came a knock on the front door. Groaning audibly, he raised his head and called—"Who is it?"

No answer. Well, that ruled out a confused Aule locking his keys in the apartment. Or anyone else who might be lurking around and looking for him, for that matter.

Who would be calling on their place at nine in the fucking morning?

Padding to the door on bare feet, he cracked it open just a few inches to peer outside. "H-hello?" He caught a glimpse of dark hair, a thin and aristocratic nose, metallic blue eyes—

_Shit._

Morgoth Bauglir smirked patiently as Mairon pulled the door open all the way.

_Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit—_

"Good morning," he appraised richly, looking the blonde over.

Mairon had the sudden urge to hide. Or vomit. Or perhaps both. Here he was—Morgoth Bauglir, standing at his doorstep—and Mairon was wearing nothing but a dye-stained old tee and a pair of shredded, too-short sweatpants that he'd been wearing as pyjamas since he was fourteen.

"Oh—um—" He felt blood rush hotly to his face in embarrassment. "What—how did you—" Morgoth Bauglir had his address. Morgoth Bauglir went out of his way to show up at his house. _Morgoth fucking Bauglir was, once again, getting involved—_

"Mairon," His name was heavy and delicious coming from Melkor's throat. "Are you going to invite me in?"

Nervously, Mairon shuffled past the door, opening it up enough for Melkor to saunter into his apartment. With the large, notably attractive man in his space, the apartment suddenly felt so much smaller—and dirtier, and full of old takeout boxes and dirty dishes. "How—you know my name?"

Slowly, languidly—_dammit, stop watching him—_Melkor withdrew a familiar, faded old brown wallet. Shit. How did that—

"Missing something?" Melkor purred as Mairon gaped. He felt suddenly a lot stupider—of course he'd drop his wallet in _Morgoth Bauglir_'s fancy upscale loft. And now he was standing in his living room in shabby pyjamas, staring dejectedly at his feet—and Melkor's artfully scuffed black Doc Martens, their heavy soles standing solidly in contrast to Mairon's skinny little toes, poking through holey old socks.

"Um—Thank you...?" Mairon reached for his wallet, only to have it swiftly pulled out of reach.

Tutting, Melkor chuckled. "Or, perhaps you meant to lose it. Looking for a celebrity visit, little bird? I didn't peg you as one of my fans."

"No—no!—I mean, I googled you last night—are you thirsty?" Mairon shuffled into the kitchen in stocking feet, trying to ignore his rather imposing company.

"Some water would be nice." He laughed darkly and Mairon got the feeling that he was being toyed with. Melkor was trying to terrify him.

He was obviously a guy who knew what kind of effect he had on people, and he used it to its fullest effect.

Mairon fished through the fridge shakingly, pulling out a bottle of Dasani and praying he wasn't being perceived as some kind of white trash for having nothing nicer. Melkor had relocated to the little dining area beside the open kitchen and was now lounging in one of his and Aule's mismatched chairs, eyeing the room as if it were some kind of piece of art.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting any company—" Mairon slid the bottle onto the table, willing his hand to steady.

"I was in the area," Melkor waved his hand passively. "Figured I could personally return your belongings. Take a seat." Mairon sat clumsily across from him without objection. Melkor's tone sounded more like an order and less like an offer, and he didn't want to question it.

The large man cast his blue eyes in Mairon's direction, holding him in place with that commanding gaze. Melkor, still with his hand on Mairon's wallet, opened it up and rifled through the interior before he withdrew a small business card that Mairon recognized from his ceramics professor's studio. "You work for a studio, Mairon?"

"No—I'm just an art major..." he denied. A mediocre one at best, too.

"Got any future aspirations?"

"Why?"

Melkor folded his hands under his chin. "Bored and curious," he lulled. "Humor me."

"Um..." Mairon bit his lower lip nervously. "I—I just want to finish art school, maybe go to grad school...I dunno."

Melkor grinned. "That's good. Healthy. Hold on to that." Mairon tilted his head. Didn't everyone emphasise having an idea what to do with life? Prepare to run a business, sell paintings, run a studio?

As if hearing his thoughts, Melkor continued, "Plans change. It's better to just not make any at all. Gets you farther. Look at me, fuckin' rolling in money and only slightly angry most of the time. Fuck plans. You got it? Just stick 'em up your ass and forget about it." Mairon nodded obediently and cruel smirk spread over Melkor's face. "That's a good little bird," he cooed, the baritone of his voice sending a rogue shiver down Mairon's spine. _Little bird...?_ Something about Melkor's familiarity bothered him.

He scooted back in his seat, pulling as far away from the dark musician as he could. "You shouldn't be here," he mumbled, casting his eyes to the ground.

He heard Melkor shift in the chair, the water bottle touching the table with a soft plink. "You let me in." Melkor's voice was dark, predatory. It sent a cold chill down Mairon's spine that insinuated far more than just that, and in that moment Mairon felt that threat, that horror that hovered over the core of Morgoth Bauglir.

Then Melkor cleared his throat, and the chill wind broke and a warmth returned to the room. He looked back up and met those blue orbs again with a bit of trepidation. What, really, did Melkor want...? Company? _Something else..._? Mairon knew, to an extent, his own attractiveness ('You're lucky you're hot, because your personality is shit,' the memory of Eonwe cited, followed by a look of appraisal). But this was someone far higher on the food chain, sitting in his dining room and staring him down in the calmest way Mairon had ever imagined.

Then Melkor reached over and covered Mairon's hand with his own, making the blonde's breath hitch in his throat, for just a moment. His hand was warm and smooth, calloused at the fingers from years upon years of music.

Then he was leaning forward across the table, and Mairon could smell the cigarettes and sandalwood on his neck, in his hair—and his breath was warm on his face. This was _wrong—_this was the sort of thing that set off a thousand alarm bells in his head, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from hypnotic cobalt eyes, from silky hair and sharp cheekbones, from that straight, aristocratic nose that almost brushed his own in their proximity.

"I'm not all that bad," he murmurred. His breath was sweet, a mix of tobacco and Dasani. "And you—are really cute..."

Cute. _Cute—_

A shrill voice cut through the air as the front door burst open. "Good _morning, _sleeping beau—what the _fuck—"_

Then his hand was gone, his breath lingering on Mairon's face for only a moment before bringing out the chill that he hadn't felt in the air before, and Melkor was leaning back in his chair, waving calmly to a disconcerted Aule and a massive jug of iced tea.

"The hell're you?" He could see that twitch in Aule's eye. He didn't fancy guests too much to begin with; and Mairon, reeling from—whatever that was going to be—still in his pyjamas and struck like a scared rabbit.

Melkor rose from his seat, holding the bottled water in one hand and sliding Mairon's wallet across the table. "I suppose I should take my leave." He nodded, just once, to Mairon and shouldered past Aule to the door. "I'll catch you around, little bird," he smirked, waving just once.

Then he left, just like that, and Mairon found himself facing down Aule and his jug of iced tea as if he had just committed a crime.

They stood in silence for some time, until Mairon heard the roar of a Harley pull away from the apartments with ease, speeding into the distance.

"The _fuck _did I just walk into, Mai?" Aule glared accusingly.

"I—I don't know..." Mairon looked at his hands. "He was just returning my wallet—I guess—"

Aule crossed his arms. "Looked more like you were picking up more douchebags. On _my _turf, too! Goddammit, Mairon, I thought you'd put high school behind you—"

Mairon's hands his the table then, and he pushed himself up. "That's _not _what that was all about, Aule, and you know it—stop teasing me—"

"I'm serious." Aule pinned him in place with one of those judging stares. "I don't give a shit if you're gay or whatever but you've gotta pick your boyfriends better, man. That last one fucked you up real bad and I don't wanna see that shit again. And that goth fucker that just snaked out was, like, Eonwe's bestie or something."

"You've got your fashion subcultures mixed—and I keep saying, he was just returning my wallet. I left it somewhere."

Aule watched his eyes for a moment, and he held the gaze steadfast. He would not back down from this fight—not like anything happened anyway. Then Aule sighed, and shook his head, and crossed his arms in the way he did when he was annoyed. "Whatever. Just don't bring around shitheads for me to beat the piss out of anymore. I'm twenty-one—I could go to jail for that."

Mairon smiled. "I won't," he promised, rising to slink off to his room. Now it was nine-thirty, and he figured that was still early enough to get more sleep. "I'm beat. Going back to bed," he grumbled, sliding past Aule and down the hall to his room.

That little part of his mind was still reeling, and as he shut the door he reached up to touch his lips. What would have happened if Aule hadn't come in, anyway...?

_Nothing. _He'd leave it there. Nothing.

Once again he felt like he was trapped in that spiral. Unable to shake that attractive face from his mind, the feeling of his hand, the smell of his _breath..._

He picked up a pillow from where it'd been previously tossed on the ground and threw it at the wall in frustration. He was like a bulb, half screwed in and flickering violently with that modicum of electricity that coursed through it. Either someone could push it all the way in, or it could wither and flicker off again. At that point between wakefulness and rest he sat, with that horrible, drug-infested, _energizing _world on one side and the calm peace of his structured college life on the other.

Dammit, he wasn't going to get involved with that again. This was just a fluke. A bored musician stopping by because he's rich and famous and assumes he can. He was simply toying with fire, just for a moment, and then the fire was going somewhere else to do it same thing—burn, intensely, gorgeously—with someone else.

Good thing he hadn't been burned this time.

-x-

_Gravity, no escapin'_

_Not for free_


	4. Slurring the Rhythms

APPROACHING NORMAL

4

_Slurring the Rhythms_

The September sun rose and fell in eons-predicted loops, and Mairon found himself growing depressed.

It wasn't, in truth, anything of or related to (or unrelated to) his life or his choices, so much as it was a natural development for him, one that happened time and time again. Sometimes, he just felt that depression creeping in, and no dosage of sertraline could stop his serotonin from effectively committing suicide. It wasn't so much that he had a reason to feel he was trash, so much as he just was.

It was these times that Eonwe used to feed on, bathing in that little sense of superiority in a way that Mairon could have never understood as he clung to his rock, his only person who he thought kept him above water. Now those moments were simply wrought with those memories, making him feel dirtier, like the sorry slut he'd let himself become. (_Shut up and let me fuck you,_ Eonwe would say as he grabbed a fist of Mairon's once-long hair and pulled him down, tears streaming down his pretty young face because nobody really loved him.)

He supposed he had plenty of reasons to be depressed. His mother hadn't been on speaking terms with him in years. He never went out, never made any attempt to date anymore (after that fiasco senior year, who would?), never did anything but… exist.

"Jesus man," Aule inferred one late September Saturday as he pried their cracking old windows open in the living room. The day was nice, marking a blessed in to the roasting summer heat and a prelude to a chilly and unwelcome. "Lighten up. You're giving me a case of the emos."

Mairon turned from where he was curled up contemplatively on the couch, charcoal in hand as he sketched his Drawing II project out on a sheet. "Sorry," he mumbled.

Aule stopped to face him. "Seriously," he affirmed. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?" Mairon put his charcoal on a little plate and wiped his blackened hand on a leg of his frayed old jeans.

"The mopey thing. You do it at least once a year, and next thing I know you're crying on the couch about some douchebag boyfriend from high school. Cut it out."

Mairon eyed the floor as if he had suddenly found something interesting on it. "Sorry," he repeated.

Aule grunted and started on the next window, grumbling about how they should open them up and air out the place more than once every six months. A cold silence spread over them, with nothing but the sound of the cars passing outside. Mairon picked up his sketch again and started rubbing at the imperfections, trying to visualise a perfect plan in his head before moving it to larger media.

"Yavanna and I are going on a date tonight," he changed the subject, toying with the ends of his new dreads awkwardly.

"Yes, I believe that's what couples do," Mairon snipped. Aule inclined his head at Mairon's tone, and the blonde brusquely apologized.

"You're free to tag along, you know. Just a bar crawl. Might be fun."

Mairon ignored the nonverbal commands of _stop being a fucking hermit and make some friends _and shook his head. "I'll pass," he grumbled without looking up.

Aule sighed. "Your loss, sadsack—oh for _fuck's _sake this damn thing opened in April—"

Mairon retreated to his room, thinking maybe a nap would help. Perhaps he could turn that invitation over in his head—maybe some time out of the house would help him not feel like such a pile of shit.

His bed was soft as always but Mairon realized he would not be getting any rest the moment he fell onto it. He was too gloomy today; and now his mind had something to turn over and worry itself about. He grabbed his headphones from his nightstand and put on Radiohead, his choice artist of the week. No one was more depressed than Thom Yorke, and in a twisted way that thought made him feel a bit better.

Depression was a spiral, he thought, but it loops back both ways. He had his up days and his down days—and a thousand days in between where he wondered if he could even feel anymore, or if he could just—exist. It pulled him in and it pulled him back out. Inescapable, fluid, perfect.

Maybe he needed more structure. Maybe a strict schedule would pull him back together. Maybe not; maybe a night out would be enough to kick him back into gear. Maybe.

He rolled over and buried his face in his pillow, wishing he was tired so that he could take a nap. Would that really help, though?

_ Black Star _rolled over into _Sulk _and Mairon brought up the volume to max, feeling the dark tones wash over him, relaxing his muscles and bringing his mouth into a near-smile. It was so much easier to just focus on glorious sound and forget about himself. He had too many bad thoughts circling around in his mind; it was easier to focus on someone else's problems for once. No deranged exes, no regretful mornings, none of the alientation... his family didn't matter, his college didn't matter. This was his safe-space. His defense mechanism.

He thought, maybe, if he could smell his mental corner of security, it would smell like cigarettes and sandalwood...

-x-

"2640 North Figueroa," Mairon repeated for the driver while Aule and Yavanna filed into the taxi behind him, gigglingg loudly effectively shoving him into the far end of the vehicle. They hadn't even made it to the bar yet and the couple was already tipsy; Mairon knew already that this would be a long evening for him. He regretted his resignation to joining the two on their weekend advents; the night had just started and he was already missing the safety of his bedroom.

"Mairon, dear," Yavanna bubbled, "can you reach my shoe for me?" The pale sandal was lying next to his foot, having somehow slid off of one of Yavanna's feet. He leaned over and fetched it for her, handing it off silently and uncomfortably with two fingers.

"Thanks, baby—you're such a sweetie. Why again aren't you seeing anybody right now? I know a dozen fellows that would eat you right up—if you just took off that silly cap—" Mairon put his hands over his knit stocking cap before Yavanna could steal it away. Aule laughed heartily next to her and swatted at her arms.

"Come on now, 'Anna. Our little Mairon's just a shy little button. Won't put himself out there, will you, Mai?"

"Um—" Mairon ducked his head. "I don't think—" The taxi rounded a corner a little too sharply. Aule swore as he was bumped into the door, effectively changing the subject as Yavanna chided him for his language, leaving Mairon in peace.

Maybe he was shy. Or maybe he just didn't want a repeat offense from _last _time. He hadn't even let himself get close to people like that since. The closest he'd really gotten was—

—_cigarettes and sandalwood, cobalt blue eyes—_

—he didn't want to think about it. He'd had enough of moody musicians toying with his emotions for a lifetime. Especially ones who didn't even know him; who liked the pretty face and the dainty blonde curls and the warm amber eyes but not the person beneath, the person who mattered.

Footsie's Bar was, if anything, unimpressive on the outside. But Mairon knew from experience that looks could be deceiving as they left the taxi and he was pulled bodily into the bar by an enthusiastic Aule.

The inside was warmly decorated with only furniture that had to be at least fifty years old; the people dressed similarly, flocks of young people in old trophies of clothing. Mairon felt a bit more comfortable in the atmosphere, surrounded by smartly coordinated skinny-jean hipsters who would overlook him without a second thought, and he sidled into the crowd with that thought, the sound of clanging guitars filling the room with warmth.

A three-man band was onstage, working their way through an original set that was anything but original in itself. But they were good; Eonwe would have liked them, once. A group of skinny, classically dressed kids who used a kickbox because they couldn't be bothered to find a real drumset, sliding through clever instrumentation with a series of strange instruments that Mairon couldn't quite place on the side. A banner named them _The Silmarils, _adorned with three scratchy cartoonish diamonds wearing thick-rim glasses and bowties. Mairon had never heard of them; the rest of the crowd probably hadn't either, but that didn't stop them from enjoying it. Drinks flowed freely and, underage as he was, Mairon was able to score a cup of cheap hipster beer that tasted more like water and less like alcohol. He looked around the crowd and spotted Aule handing a cocktail off to Yavanna, who was still giggling.

Good enough night, he guessed. Could have been better, but he felt the steady rhythm of indie rock lulling him into a sway with the rest of the audience, relaxing his strained mind as he gave in to the pure sound of Orange and Gibson.

Then the night was, if anything, effectively ruined.

The guitarist waved from his spot on the mic as the song ended with a smile. "This next one's a classic—but first I wanna bring a good friend o' mine up to help us out."

The crowd cheered moderately, and a dark-headed figure walked onstage with a confident gait that Mairon knew anywhere.

_ No._

His hair was still dyed dark and lightly wavy, falling just below his chin—_'m going for that Jack White look, _he'd reflected casually to Mairon back when they were still together. He'd topped it with a gray newsboy cap, and his clothes were coordinated fashionably in blues to compliment it; if Mairon were closer to the stage, he imagined he could have smelled that heavy cologne that he always wore. It was like looking through a glass; he hadn't changed at all in all the time since they'd broken up.

He also brought back less-than-pleasant memories, and the thought of their unpleasant breakup. Mairon felt overwhelmed then—frightened. He could see their relationship hadn't affected the guitarist quite as terribly as it had affected him, if at all. He took one step back, then another—_no, no, no—_

('I hope you realize what you are one day,' a memory told him. 'A slut. Pure and simple. Good for nothing but a quick fuck. And when you do, you'll come crawling back to me, the only person who could ever love a slut.')

He was running then, past a surprised crowd, away from all of this—

He took refuge in the men's room, the door slamming behind him and shocking a poor gentleman at the urinals. Soon the bathroom was completely vacated and he braced his hands on the sink, staring at his distraught face in the mirror until his eyes burned with unshed tears.

He hadn't seen Eonwe in—a long time. He'd been cleverly avoiding the musician whenever possible. Avoiding speaking his name, even.

People spoke of abusive relationships, of dangers and the meanings of consent—but it was all so different when he was actually a part of it. To this day he felt some sense of blame in himself for his relationship problems. He wouldn't admit—at least not out loud—that Eonwe had treated him less than well. He also wouldn't admit that he'd been anything but perfectly happy with his relationship.

He'd been loved and well-loved—surely he'd been loved and well-loved, by the only person in the universe who would ever truly put up with him.

He didn't realise he'd been crying, gripping the sink with whitened knuckles until the door to the bathrooms gently opened and closed behind him. He squeezed his watery eyes shut as heavy boots moved up to stop behind him, regarding him silently.

Assuming it was Aule, Mairon held the sink harder, ducking his head. "Go away, I'm fine," he protested.

Hands that were very warm and very much _not _Aule's wrapped around his tense fingers, gently prying them free from the ceramic sinks. _Paint it Black _had started playing outside, a lilting rendition flowing from Eonwe's skilled guitarist hands.

A voice that was also very much _not _Aule spoke into his ear, warm and dark and alarmingly familiar. "You ran from the floor and now you're crying in a bathroom. You don't look fine to me, little bird."

Mairon felt his whole body tense. _Melkor. _"Wh—what are you doing here...?" He fought the urge to tremble.

"Wondering why a cute little thing like you is hiding out in a place like this," Melkor remarked nonchalantly. He could hear the smirk in his voice, could smell the shampoo of the hair that had fallen partially onto his shoulder. He did not want this right now; not when someone who incided such horrible melancholy was onstage, just a door away. What if Eonwe had noticed his rapid escape...?

He suddenly became conscious of the firm callouses of Melkor's fingers, the gentle way he held on to Mairon's shaking hands. It was a sense of security that he garnered from the warmth of a larger body behind his, as if nothing terrible could reach him.

Then he remembered who he was dealing with, and the comfort was gone.

"S-sorry," he ground out. "It's just—exes, that's all."

"That guest vocalist?" Melkor tutted.

Mairon nodded. "—We didn't end it on a good note..."

"That's a shame. A pretty little thing like you..." Melkor muttered, making Mairon blush lightly. He spun the smaller boy around to face him, holding one hand out to him in offering. "I've seen all I need to see here; how's about we go find some place to relax, yeah? I can think of a few places in town more worth it than this shithole."

Mairon wasn't sure what had gotten into him when he decided to reach out and take the extended hand. Maybe, just for a night, he _wanted _to be whisked away for a change.

-x-

_ A: Where r u?_

Mairon frowned into his blackberry screen as he kept one arm wrapped around Melkor's firm stomach at the 'd forgotten to tell Aule he was leaving...though, it was a shock that Aule even realized he was gone. Carefully he typed out a response.

_ Ran into a friend. It was getting kinda noisy so we decided to split._

A part-truth perhaps. He wasn't sure if Melkor qualified in the friend category.

At first, Mairon feared the motorcycle ride to _wherever _Melkor had decided to go was too nostalgic, too close to the danger zone of locked-out memories. But Melkor was different; he was bigger, and stronger, and his Harley was a hulking mass compared to the little thing that Eonwe had called a bike.

"Where're we going?" he called over the rumble of the engine. They'd worked their way into Silverlake; he wasn't sure what was so interesting about whatever could be found here.

He could feel Melkor's grin ahead of him. He'd been waiting for that question to be asked; he'd wanted to keep Mairon wondering.

"The Overpass," he answered, as if it gave any hint as to where they'd be.

"Like a bridge?" Mairon wasn't sure what the appeal of an overpass could be.

Melkor laughed. "Something like that."

When he pulled the bike to a curb, they were definitely not anywhere near a bridge, Mairon noted while looking around. They were a few blocks away from a park on Fifth that he remembered from an old middle school project, and Melkor helped him off the bike.

"This doesn't look like an overpass," Mairon remarked.

With a chuckle, Melkor took his arm and led him down the road, toward the park. "You'll see," he promised.

Across the street from the park was a nondescript gate, and Melkor guided him to it. At the gate a large, broad-shouldered man with a full belly rose, his skin the color of warm bark and his eyes glittering with mischief. He filled up the whole gate with his naturally large frame, muscled arms crossed.

"If it isn't my main man," he joked with a lightly Hispanic lilt. "What's Morgoth Bauglir doing way over here tonight? Thought you was scouting for contracts."

"What the hell are you doing?" Melkor raised an eyebrow accusingly, but his tone was mischievous. "You got too much money to be running gates, moron."

"My buddy o'er there," the man pointed to his left with his cigarette. Further down the block, a heavily muscled guard was talking in hushed tones on the phone. "His girl is making a scene. I told him I'd watch out until he's talked her down. So you want in, yeah? You and arm candy right there?"

Melkor looked from Mairon to his other friend. "Mairon—this is Gothmog. He's my partner in crime, if you may."

Gothmog snorted, flicking some tobacco on the ground. "Don't flatter yourself," he remarked. Then to Mairon, "I run the show, if ya wanna know. Melkor over here just owns Beleriand and counts his money stacks. I do all the important work."

"Your _secretaries _do all the important work," Melkor amended teasingly. "So, will you let us through?"

"Only if you tell me if we're picking up The Silmarils," Gothmog argued.

Melkor shrugged. "They'd be damn great with a pit of polishing. I'll leave it to PR to get up with them."

Gothmog grinned, showing rows of large white teeth. "Good. We oughta sign those kids before someone else snatches them up, if you ask me." He ambled to the side to let the pair through. Melkor led him through the gate and towards an unmarked door.

"Don't party too hard now," Gothmog added in an afterthought. "I'm not dropping charges next time you start throwing punches, dumbass."

"Noted." Melkor opened the door, and the sound of acoustic guitars flooded Mairon's ears as he was led inside a dark and smoky front room.

With a devilish smirk, Melkor took Mairon's hand again. "Welcome to The Overpass," he introduced. "Best kept secret in all of Eastside."

It was nice. The chairs looked comfortable. The paneling on the walls was soft and inviting. The bar was well-stocked and the people all looked like they shopped solely at American Apparel or wore clothes they'd pulled out of a nineties garbage pail. This was not the kind of place Eonwe would have had access to, nor any of his low-rate friends.

Melkor offered him an inviting-looking cocktail, which he graciously accepted. His slump from earlier, even his run-in with his ex, was nearly forgotten in the warmth of the quiet club.

-x-

Mairon thought, for just a moment, that he might be drunk.

He'd lost count a while ago of how many of those fruity-tasting cocktails he'd had, focusing only on the fact that they tasted nice and the more he had, the less sad he felt. The bar was warmer now, at least to him; he'd discarded his checkered flannel long since, though Melkor was still dressed in his stiff button-down with his jacket slung over his arm.

"Dance with me," he giggled enthusiastically, pulling at his companion's arm.

"It's past two," Melkor deadpanned. Had it really gotten that late? No, they'd just gotten there, hadn't they? "And you've had a bit too much to drink."

"Naaaaaah," Mairon grinned. "Nah, _you _have."

"Three beers is _not _a lot." Melkor took his arm, and for a minute Mairon swayed. Okay, maybe he was a _little _drunk... "I should take you home. Your friends are likely wondering where you are."

"_Naaaaaaah._" Mairon shrugged dizzily. "Aule dun' care as long as 'Anna gets ta stay over." He leaned into Melkor's firm shoulder. Hmm...he could feel muscles underneath that fancyshirt. He _liked _muscles.

"Ya know," he drawled, running his fingers over the fabric on Melkor's arm. "I can' remember what I was so scared of anymore."

"Scared?" Melkor raised an eyebrow, and Mairon was wondering why the tall, dark and handsome was leading him toward the door.

"Yaaaah. I thought you were some big bad guy."

"I'm not a bad guy," Melkor protested.

"You been to jail," Mairon argued drunkenly as a rush of cool autumn air hit him from the outside. "Bad guys go ta jail."

"Maybe I am a bad guy then," the dark-haired man drawled.

"'s okay." Mairon patted his arm, stumbling a bit on the sidewalk as Melkor led him back through the gate and down Fifth. "I like bad boys."

Melkor chuckled, and let him keep on babbling about something along the lines of how he wanted another one of those apple juice cocktails.

He stopped in his tracks once Melkor had guided him back to the bike. "Where're we going...?" he asked.

"Home," replied Melkor. "Where do you live? Can't remember how to get there." He was fiddling with his HTC, pulling up the GPS.

"Um...Fifty-two-thirty...forty...huh..." Mairon struggled with his bleary thoughts to find the address. "Uh...can't remember."

"Do you have your wallet?" Melkor held his hand out. "That's how I found your place, before."

Mairon shrugged and swayed a little. "I dun' bring my wallet to clubs...jus' some cash and my phone."

"Let's try calling your roomate then," Melkor determined. Mairon lightened up. Melkor was a genius...! Though, Aule might not be happy to hear that he'd gone and gotten wasted with a stranger—even if he was a _really attractive _stranger.

Together they managed to fumble with his phone, between Mairon's giggling and Melkor's steady grip around his fingers to ensure he didn't drop the poor blackberry.

The ringer went straight to voicemail, and Melkor cut it before Mairon could make any remarks that he would regret in the morning.

The dark-haired man sighed heavily. "I guess I could take you back with me," he mused.

Mairon's eyes brightened. "Slumber party!" he exclaimed. Something about the idea of staying in Morgoth Bauglir's big, comfy flat excited him. Maybe it was the thought of all that space, all that money—or maybe he was just wondering to himself if Melkor wore a shirt to bed, because _damn _he would like to see those abdominals.

"I could put you up on my sofa for the night, I guess," Melkor mused, mostly to himself as Mairon was still bubbling about slumber parties.

Melkor led him to the bike and Mairon automatically wrapped his arms around the larher man's middle.

"Don't forget to hold on tight, now," Melkor advised.

"Okay!" Mairon grinned into his back. He still smelled so nice...

-x-

The sun in his eyes hurt. It was _so _horribly bright. Why did the sun have to exist? Mairon groaned audibly, and his own groan hurt his ears, contributing to a splitting headache. Why did his head hurt?

Oh. Yeah. Alcohol. The evening came rushing back to him, all at once—

—"Yeah. Tell them ten tomorrow is good. Yeah—I'd get it done today but Sundays are bad luck for business, you know—"

Melkor's voice was _so _loud. Or maybe he was just too hungover to handle normal volume. Why was Melkor at his house, anyway?—

Wait. No. This wasn't his couch. It was too soft. He was at _Melkor's _house.

He pushed his face into the cushion, hiding his embarrassment. Damn, Aule was gonna murder him...

"Listen, I gotta go—yeah, I've got it—I know—" There was an audible beep and the sound of the faucet running. Mairon squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on anything but the white-hot metallic headache splitting his brain.

Before he knew it, a glass of water and some Advil was being pushed into his hands, with which he accepted gratefully as he forced himself to sit up with a groan.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty," Melkor teased. "Or, should I say—afternoon."

"Shit..." Mairon croaked, sipping the lukewarm faucet water as gently as he could. His head was still spinning. "What time is it?"

"Almost one," Melkor answered, weaving around the couch to look at Mairon. He was wearing a slim-fitting tee and a pair of baggy jeans, and looked everything like the superstar he was. His long hair was tied back into a low ponytail, out of the way of his handsome face.

Mairon blinked. Almost one o'clock. "Fuuuuuuuck," he moaned, fighting the urge to lie back down. Aule was going to fucking _end _him. He reached for his phone, then realized he was wearing an oversized pair of sweats that certainly didn't belong to him—

"Your roommate called this morning," Melkor answered his thoughts with a mischievous smile as he wove back behind the sofa. "I told him I'd get you back once you were up and moving."

Mairon squeezed his eyes shut again. If his headache could get worse, it would have just then. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck—

He didn't even _want _to know what kind of intervention Aule had prepared now that he knew Mairon had decided to sleep over at a _rockstar's _flat. He could feel the disapproving gaze already, the passive-agressive text messages racking up in his brain. Aule liked to watch over him like a big brother, and he didn't approve when Mairon got himself stuck in stupid situations.

And did he even want to know what Melkor had said to him? He didn't know the man very well, but from what he'd seen and heard, he liked to tease and surely this was a great opportunity to get Mairon's social circle up in arms.

One of Melkor's large hands mussed his blonde curls. "Hungry, cutie?" he cooed, relishing in Mairon's embarrassment. "I've got eggs and pizza, but that's pretty much it. Need to do a grocery store run soon."

Mairon shook his head, then cringed as he realized that head movement was _not _a good idea right now. "I don't think my stomach can take it."

"If you don't get any protein in that system," Melkor's warm, dark voice was moving now, echoing with the marble tile in the kitchen, "it'll only get worse. You're so skinny anyway..." The clang of pots and pans, the sound of the fridge opening and closing—he guessed he didn't have any say in the matter.

Soon, the large room was filled with the aroma of frying eggs. Mairon took the opportunity to examine himself, feeling the painkillers slowly ease the headache. His clothes had been swapped for a too-large shirt and similarly overlong sweats; Melkor must have let him borrow some of his clothes.

He looked around, noting the great red dragon that dominated part of one wall, lively and beautiful.

"It's finished," he commented quietly.

"What was that?" He could hear Melkor fumbling for some seasonings.

"Your dragon," he marveled. "It's incredible."

"Thanks." He could hear the smile in Melkor's voice. He was certainly a man who appreciated compliments. "I worked tattoos for a while before I got signed. My boss taught me how to paint; he was really somethin', ya know, one of the best in the trade." He heard a soft click as the stove was cut and the sound of eggs being transferred to a plate with a clank.

Before he knew it, Mairon found a plate of aromatic scrambled eggs deposited into his lap, sunny and yellow. He looked at it, then back to Melkor. Had he really just...made him lunch? For a kid that he barely knew, who had already mooched off of him as far as to crash on his couch?

"What's wrong?" Melkor raised a dark eyebrow. "Do you not like eggs?"

"No—no," Mairon shook his head. "I just...why are you being so nice...?"

"Nice?" Melkor echoed with a laugh. The cushions shifted on the couch as Melkor sat next to him. "Mairon, my dear, I am as selfish as they come."

"No one's ever made me food before like this..." Mairon took a bite and realized that it was really _good _too.

"Ulterior motives," Melkor sang. "See, you eat the eggs, you like them, and then you further inflate my ego by telling me what a great cook I am. In the end, I am the one to profit."

Mairon looked up at him. "The eggs really _are _good, though..." he noted.

"See? Profit." He patted Mairon's head, settling his fingers into his fine blonde curls. "I do love getting what I want."

He wondered if those last words were predatory, or if he were just reading too far into Melkor's idle chatter. The hand in his head abandoned him, and suddenly he felt just a bit colder.

"So?" Melkor was leaning on his arms now, lazily lounging on the sofa beside Mairon. "Should I be taking you back soon, or would you like to torment your roommate some more?"

Mairon grinned.

-x-

"Thuringwethil!" Melkor practically danced down the stairs to reach the front desk. Mairon followed shyly behind him, wearing his jeans from the night before and a tee shirt that was, again, way too big for him. When he'd decided to get dressed, he'd found what he assumed was some kind of exciting alcoholic mystery stain on his plaid from the night before, and Melkor had simply tutted and thrown a black tee shirt at him, insisting that it was fine and he'd just get it back later.

Mairon blushed. It smelled nice; like Melkor and whatever gentle-smelling detergent he used.

"Well here comes ma' favorite asshole," Thuringwethil shouted back from the lobby. She sounded a lot happier now than from what Mairon remembered in the past.

"You holding?" Melkor leaned his large hands on her desk with a sly grin.

She reached into her purse and pulled out a nondescript packet of white powder, smirking and waving it as if she didn't care if the world saw. "White horse this time, nice an' pure."

Mairon's heart stopped for a moment, and all of the nice conversations and the friendly banter he'd had all afternoon with Melkor rushed out of his head. Were they...?

"How much?" Melkor pulled a wad of bills from his pocket.

They _were. _He'd never seen a drug deal go down before. Of course, Eonwe always had marijuana on him, but he'd never even so much as looked at anything else. He didn't like to think about it—that dark side of the music scene. But that was definitely cocaine in Thuringwethil's hands.

"Eight," she smiled sweetly through dark lips.

"Miser," Melkor grumbled, but he counted out a wad of twenties and slid it over to her anyway.

Right when he didn't want her to, Thuringwethil turned her head toward his place where he half-hid behind the doorway, peering out at them. "I think yer just about scarin' the daylights outta that poor boy, bless his heart," she observed.

"Oh, he'll be okay." Melkor waved him off, pocketing the substance. "Thanks for the hookup, babe—come on, Mairon, are you ready to go home?"

Mairon shyly walked out into the front lobby and let Melkor lead him to another set of stairs.

He knew that Melkor had a history with drugs—he'd read about it—but seeing it was something he didn't like at all. He'd just spent the whole afternoon talking with him, laughing with him, watching corny gossip television and listening to his snide remarks about celebrity culture. It was hard to imagine, in those moments, that Melkor was a bad guy.

"Oh, step up, kid," Melkor remarked. His smile had disappeared. "Drugs're everywhere. Doesn't change who I am, does it? Stop acting like a suburban white girl and get over here."

The staircase led down to a nondescript door, and then into a parking deck, blocked off by a set of gates from the alley road. Instead of leading him to the motorcycle, Melkor guided Mairon to a sleek Audi R8, unlocking the door with a click from his keys.

Mairon sank into a comfortable pale leather seat as the engine came to life in a heavy purr. Instantly the radio synced up to his phone—one of the new hands-free radios, Mairon presumed—and the car was filled with the warm tones of The Cure.

"You remember your address now, right?" Melkor grinned at him.

"Y-yeah." Mairon recited it off the top of his head, and Melkor nodded, tapping it into a GPS. The car slid smoothly out of its parking spot and through the dense security gates, into the wild afternoon traffic.

They conversed lightly on the drive, Melkor griping about the traffic—'_God, I hate the 405,_' he mumbled several times—and occasionally inputing a bit of history of whatever piece of music might have started playing on his radio, or checking the GPS for his exit. Quickly, though, they were already back in front of Mairon's shitty apartments. The car looked absurdly out of place amidst the old student vehicles and run-down mopeds. He eased out of it shyly, before realizing with horror that Melkor too was cutting the engine and stepping out of the Audi. Was he planning on walking him to the door...?

Mairon flushed. Aule would probably have more of a fit than ever. Melkor wove around the car to face him, and fixed him with one of those heavy cobalt gazes that Mairon had grown better at ignoring with the day he'd spent in the rockstar's company.

But now, it sent a shiver down his spine as he saw something that he hadn't seen in all of his day with Melkor—something terrifically similar to that which he saw during his brief visit to Mairon's apartment in early September.

It was hunger, he realized, and for a minute he trembled with anticipation, wondering if Melkor was going to step forward and stake his claim as he almost had before. He needed only move and Mairon would be at his mercy...

Then Mairon remembered the white powder in Melkor's pocket. Hard drugs. He remembered the google search, the criminal background and the _danger. _

With all of his courage—or perhaps his _fear—_he took a step back, and Melkor's countenance changed, catching himself with a flash of _something—_of what, Mairon was unsure.

"Shall we?" he intoned smoothly, stepping up onto the curb with the intent for Mairon to follow.

Mairon swallowed and followed him up the steps to his run-down apartment block.

The door swung open immediately when he arrived to knock—Aule had definitely been waiting. He looked first at Mairon, then at Melkor, then back to the overlarge shirt Mairon wore, and the stained plaid bundled in his arms. There was an air of disapproval about him.

"It's five o'clock," he observed, and Mairon ducked his head. Melkor snorted behind him.

"You gonna invite us in?" Melkor retorted. "Or are you going to leave cute little Mai out here on the streets?"

Aule narrowed his eyes. "_Mairon _come in," he responded guardedly. "And you can leave."

Someone shifted behind him, and he caught a sight of Varda's shining dark perm. Melkor, behind him, waved pointedly at her.

Melkor raised his eyebrows. "Varda, babe, it's been a while—"

"Thank you for bringing my friend back safely, Melkor," Varda cut him off, shouldering into the doorframe. "You can leave now."

He could hear Melkor's soft intake of breath. "Touchy, are we?" He straightened up, and retreated from behind Mairon with a pat on his shoulder. "See you around, cutie—I'll call ya."

Aule dragged Mairon into the apartment as he watched Melkor's retreating form, hands in his pockets and head ducked lazily, his dark hair cascading down his back from his loosening ponytail.

Aule shut the door behind him, and he found three sets of eyes fixed on him. Yavanna was perched on a chair at the table, a deck of cards half-shuffled in her hands. Varda moved back to the table to join her, sipping on a light-colored cocktail. Aule, however, was unmoved, fixing him with a reprimanding dark stare.

"Mairon..." he started, but Varda continued for him.

"He didn't hurt you, did he, hon?" she asked softly in her sophisticated lilt.

"I—no," Mairon shook his head. Why was he under attack? He knew Aule wasn't a fan of the idea of Mairon spending some quality time with rockstars.

"You should probably block his number," Aule advised. "Varda told us some things about him—"

"He seemed pretty nice to me," Mairon protested. "He didn't hurt me, I swear—he just made me lunch and we talked for a while..."

"Mairon, honey—you're a sweet boy. Yavanna and Aule tell me nothing but nice things about you." Varda stood up and put her soft hands on his shoulders, looking him over. "If he...did anything to you, I want you to tell me, okay?"

"Like what?" Mairon blanched. "Make me some eggs and let me borrow his clothes? I swear he didn't do anything—"

"You said the same things about another guy once, if I remember," Aule shot back. Mairon cringed. This was _not _about Eonwe—besides, was he really so untrustworthy that Aule wouldn't believe him about Melkor?

Varda sighed, turning her soft face to the ground. "We dated once, you know, when I was going through a bit of a rebellious phase—believe me, you're not safe around him or his friends. Tanya, Gordon...they're bad people too."

Mairon blinked. "Who?"

"Tanya goes by Thuringwethil now…" Varda looked away. "Some kind of gothic thing, I can't for the life of me understand it...and Gordon is one of Melkor's friends. He goes by Gothmog and calls himself a rapper." She rolled her eyes, displaying an obvious resentment to Melkor and his social circle.

He remembered Thuringwethil sliding the packet over to Melkor, her eyes cast back toward him with a teasing smile. She had a set of snake bites under her full lips, and they'd glinted in the lighting of the lobby.

Or Gothmog, massive and looming and utterly strong, wearing sagging jeans and a patterned basketball jersey. The way he'd been regarded as Melkor's latest arm accessory, his newest conquest in the art of seduction.

Then Melkor, who had been nothing but nice to him, doing little more than offering a hand and buying him drinks. What could possibly be so awful about him...? He hadn't made one bad advance. He'd just hauled him around, like old chums having a good time. He hadn't tried _anything… _in fact, his first night out with Eonwe when he was fourteen was more eventful than that.

Strange, how she carried such resentment for her ex…

"So you broke up with Melkor and got engaged to his brother?" Mairon challenged.

Her face darkened. "There's more to it than that, and you know it," she shot back. "So don't even go there."

Yavanna cleared her throat from her seat. "I thought we were going to play cards," she remarked. "Let him be for a little bit, Varda...he just messed up, is all."

Varda sighed, but he was let be for at least the time being as she set back to shuffling the cards. Aule brushed past him with that same disappointed look again, but they let him be, and he retreated back to his room before he had to undergo another verbal attack.

His phone vibrated unexpectedly as he tossed his stained shirt into the hamper, fishing around on his bookshelves for a bottle of water. He pulled it out and found to his surprise a new text icon flashing on his screen.

_M: u ok?_

Melkor wasn't kidding. He'd added his number into Mairon's phone at some point—probably when Mairon was still sleeping. Unwittingly, a small smile crossed his face.

Was he really that bad of a guy if he was checking up on him?

_My friends really don't like you, _he typed out on his Blackberry's compact little keyboard, hitting the button shortcut to send his message. Within minutes, his phone buzzed again, indicating a new message.

_M: sounds pretty normal_

He'd added a little face icon with its tongue sticking out. He suppressed the urge to giggle at the thought of Melkor using emotes. It was almost the most nonthreatening thing he could possibly do. He could picture him, sitting at the gym, or maybe back at his spacious apartment, idly scrolling through his phone…

_Or maybe he was just high_. The smile disappeared. It _was _pretty well-implied that Melkor had a hard drug habit of some kind. To what extent, Mairon knew not. He hadn't seen him using anything when he'd been over...then again, was he really all that observant?

_Still. _He idly started pecking out a light conversation with the rockstar, digging himself a bigger hole with each press of a button. What Aule didn't know couldn't hurt him, right? Maybe they were wrong—he couldn't for the life of him see that same bad-guy in Melkor that he'd seen in his exes. Instead he saw charm, and exhilaration, and the thrill of a new world that he'd never so much as imagined before.

Aule might try his best to be some kind of a brother or a parent to Mairon, who had no real family to claim besides him—but he had no business making all of Mairon's decisions for him. If he decided he wanted to talk to Melkor, be friendly with him, answer his texts—he could do just that. Aule couldn't tell him who to be, or who to talk to. He could only offer advice...and was it, in truth, always correct.

For Aule and his friends, the height of society was in Valinor, that big, fancy gated world that had tourists gazing longingly to the side to look upon, clean and perfect. But Mairon had never really been a part of that world—from the start, he was destined for something dirtier, something _real. _With his friends, at their parties, around people like the prestigious Iluvatars and the wealthy cousins of Aule, he'd never really fit. He sat in the back, with his grungy clothes and unkempt hair, hoping that maybe somebody would notice him because he had a cute face. But with Melkor, at the club, or even just spending that little scrap of time together...he felt like a _person_. Thuringwethil noticed him because she was curious—Gothmog disregarded him without much interest because he didn't feel the need to be polite to strangers. No one was pretending to be anything less than what they were to him. No one was trying to upkeep appearances.

Yavanna, Varda, Manwe—_they _were the ones who reminded him of Eonwe. _They_ were the ones who worried about appearance, who took him places because they felt it was the polite thing to do, that they were duty-bound to do it as a certain kind of person, who ignored him after taking him to bars and parties because they had more important people to talk to.

Maybe, somehow, they were mistaken, disillusioned to the idea of Melkor's world. Maybe his cautious steps to stay away from the forefront, his sorry slumps and his self-hate—was because he was comparing himself to a group of people who weren't truly genuine to him.

For a minute there, texting back and forth with the very person his friends had asked him to stay away from, he felt like he'd been mistaken all this time about his sense of right and wrong. Sometimes, people did bad things, but they were genuine in it—and sometimes people only ever did the right thing, but for all the wrong reasons. And with all of the false pretenses lifted, he saw his friends in a completely different light, like a glass looking in, and wondered just how well they'd treated him.

-x-

_All that matters is we're moving on._

_The roadside graveyards pass and we escape,_

_We escape, we escape, we escape repeating._


End file.
